The Last Best Hope
by SassyJ
Summary: When Harold created the machine it was supposed to watch over humanity and prevent the next 9/11. In four millennia Machine has grown and Harold Finch, Admin and John Reese, Asset are the last best hope of mankind. Stanton and Root would destroy mankind. Machine cannot allow that to happen.
1. Chapter 1

It was snowing again, the bitter wind blowing the snow into little eddys. Reese shivered, despite his overcoat and thick gloves the cold was really getting to him. He wondered if he was coming down with something, his head ached a little, and there was the beginnings of a scratchiness in the back of his throat. At least the numbers were slowing down a little. Ten days to Christmas. Reese shivered again, but that had less to do with cold than the season.

Christmas was not his favorite time of the year. It really only served to highlight what he, and Harold, had not got. Families to care about them.

He headed for the Library, he might not have a family, but he had a friend and that counted for a lot. Even if they did not currently have a number, Reese was going in to work. Because that was a great deal less depressing than the alternative.

* * *

Harold Finch stood in front of the case board and stared at the number. 47. He didn't understand it. The machine had given him that number four times now and that should have been impossible. The machine was not able to give him two digit numbers. But it had.

A soft beep announced the arrival of a message, effectively distracting Harold from his reverie. A new number. He set to work.

* * *

She sat and waited by the rocks, she had been there three days already, and it was almost time, but there was still no sight of Beatrice. If she did not arrive, Aya would have to go through the time anomaly without her. Aya used her time to prepare. Machine did not exist in the Permian, but the data was already in her mind. She sifted through it carefully, initial contact would be difficult but she had little doubt she would be able to contact Machine in 21st Century.

She used the remaining time to prepare her body. Honing her moves carefully. She hoped when he, and the hunter, understood their roles in the fate of the future, they would see the necessity for their continued survival and that would only be achieved through co-operation. The crunch of footsteps behind her startled her only very slightly.

"You're late." She addressed her hunter without turning around.

Beatrice smiled a little sourly. "You know where I was, and you knew I would be here, all other considerations are irrelevant."

Aya smiled, it was true enough. "Did you acquire it?"

The other shook her head. "The report was false. Perhaps a delaying tactic."

"You think?" Aya's thoughtful expression took the sting out of the response.

Beatrice shrugged. "It was unclear. There were no signs. Just the energy signature."

The air began to shimmer about ten feet in front of them, warrior and hunter tensed, waiting for the shimmering to resolve itself into the shape, an intense ball of light.

As the ball winked and shimmered in front of them, they walked up to it. Drew their sidearms and stepped through into the 21st Century.

They emerged into a darkened alleyway. New York in winter. They paused, lingering in the shadows as they adjusted to the 15% less oxygen, and the pollution of the 21st Century.

* * *

Reese climbed the stairs to the first floor. The cold had settled more oppressively over him as he walked, by the time he reached the Library he was aware that he was no longer coming down with something, the something was on him with a vengeance. He had stopped by the pharmacy on his way in. Even getting the flu shot had not held back whatever this virus was.

He pushed open the door at the top of the stairs and entered Harold's inner sanctum, and realized at once that something was very wrong.

"Harold?"

The reclusive genius turned in his chair. "We have a new number." His jaw clenched and he swallowed. "It's you, John."

It was as though the world slammed to a halt. Reese stumbled, and slumped into his usual chair. All thoughts of cold virus pushed to the back of his mind. Brain spinning with a thousand thoughts of potential threats out there, threats that could put Harold and everything they had worked to build up in harm's way.

His first thought was to put as much distance as quickly as possible between Finch and himself. He shot a look at Finch and was about to say as much, but Harold cut across. "Mr Reese, every time some threat has come up when we are separated, things do not turn out well. You've been shot, I've been kidnapped by a mad woman and if you have forgotten your recent arrest I can assure you, I HAVE NOT."

Reese almost jumped. Harold Finch never raised his voice, he had no need to. Appearances were deceptive, Finch carried enough weight of quiet authority without actually saying much or doing anything at all. It was just his way.

"Whatever this is, we will face it together."

John closed his eyes. As badly as he wanted to protect Finch, and what they had, he didn't want to go through this alone. As he pondered this new dependency Bear shoved his nose on his Alpha's knee. Reese's hand rubbed the dog's head gently, scratching behind the ears, Bear leaned in, sensing that the Alpha was in need of comfort.

* * *

It was a cold night. 47 had studied his target for four days so far. This one was less simple. The man was surveillance aware, never ate in the same place twice, did not appear to sleep in the same place a second time, the only consistent place would be the old Library building. Something was not right.

He had brought Nika to New York with him, travelling as a couple made good mission sense. And he could take care of her, while working, knowing where she was at all times. Safer. For him, for her.

His target was not the man that his client had said he was. Far from it, and it had become a source of considerable curiosity to 47 why the client should want John Reese dead.


	2. Chapter 2

For the first time since all of this began, Harold was truly terrified for John. Perhaps even more than the night that John was shot. The difficulty came in eliminating the least likely threats from the long list of potential enemies.

He had offered John the chance to be there in time. Now he was intending to be there in time for John.

* * *

Aya knew where the library was. Machine had downloaded the data, she had a map, schematics, information on Admin and Asset. Everything known about the assassin too. They were there for the primary, Admin, but their secondary was Asset and the Assassin. The relevant targets.

She considered their options. If they showed up at the library with no prior warning, Admin might find that too threatening.

She would talk to machine. They reached a corner under a street light, Aya paused, looked up at the camera and spoke to it.

The beep of the incoming message made Finch jump. Then the video flicked open on the screen in front of him. Two women walked into frame. Tall, dark haired, age hard to judge from the quality of the picture, but youngish. The one nearest the camera, turned and looked up at it.

The quality of the feed could almost make him believe that his eyes were deceiving him. "Not possible." He murmured weakly. She spoke again, and even though he couldn't hear her, the words she spoke led to the numbers that were directly engraved on his soul. His and John's social security numbers.

He looked her face, the turn of her head, the slow blink… and swallowed hard, because he just had to be dreaming. None of this was possible.

* * *

47 tracked Nika as she walked into the small café. The target, and the target's boss were seated at a small table in the corner where the target could observe all the passersby. 47 looked through his sniper scope, checked out all passing traffic confident that Nika could handle this simple task. He shouldn't be making contact but he knew he had to. Something was off about this, and if the St Petersburg incident was anything to go by, he and Nika would be running for their lives again if he couldn't stop it.

Step one, make contact with the target.

* * *

Kara Stanton did not consider herself an angry woman. For many years she had done her duty, done her job to the best of her ability, asked the questions, got the answers and never deviated from what she was told to do. But then the agency had taken this unswerving service and loyalty, lied to her and set her up to be killed by her partner. That he hadn't was John's tragedy. She had had no qualms about firing a bullet into him, and was extremely annoyed at herself that she allowed a sudden streak of sentimentality to prevent her doing what had to be done. Finishing the job.

Kara is officially pissed. The agency thought she could be disposed of like that? That was never going to happen. In her years working the field she knew their every move.

Capturing Snow was hardly a stretch. He wasn't the most brilliant man in the office. Although his pay grade was higher than hers, Kara had never thought of him as anything more than a bureaucratic drone, someone out in the field but behind the sidelines. Little more than a watcher. Not on a par with an honest to god field agent.

Like her beautiful John. She had felt a kick of excitement the moment she had laid eyes on her new sidekick. Tall, well-built, lean, everything that Kara enjoyed in a man, beautiful, loyal, prepared to do a thing because she asked it. And easy on the eyes. That made things more fun. The view alone made her happy. And so malleable, so eager to please in the beginning. All she had to do was provide reassurance that he was doing the right thing and he would respond.

The problem with John was that in amongst all that physical beauty, and charming, naïve malleability was a pure heart with a conscience. There came a point at which she knew he had to go.

Kara could laugh later at the irony, it was that Ordos mission that she had planned to kill Reese. Official sanction was the icing on the cake.

Against all odds he had escaped.

So had she.

It was sad, and unfortunate, and definitely an extra mess in her game plan, but he was still alive. He had to go.

Once John Reese was dead. And dead for certain this time, they could proceed. The ultimate vengeance for everything that they have taken away from Kara.

She cast a glance at her companion, Root. The girl was a little unhinged, but she had the requisite skills, and she had provided Kara with the final pieces of the puzzle. With John dead, Root would be able to move in on the prize she desired. John's protector, Harold Finch. Kara didn't care for Root's obsession with the man, if anything she found it irritating, but if she wanted the power she had to put up with the less accommodating aspects of it.

She got to her feet, _time to feed the dog_. She walked down the hall, and pushed open the door to the tiny room. She had deliberately left this room unfurnished. Grayish white walls, one window high up. The only fixture a heavy chain fixed to the floor by the back wall. A sleeping bag next to it.

Snow lying on top of the sleeping bag. She had shot him in the thigh almost four months ago, and then a second time only three weeks before. He was in pain, running a fever from the barely treated second wound. Kara found that she cared little whether he lived or died, but the thought of him suffering for daring to attempt to have her killed pleased her mightily.

So she made him suffer. The bomb vest was only a small part of it.

Then he tried to escape. Which gave her just the excuse she needed to shoot him through the thigh a second time. She replayed the startled little yelp he gave as the bullet punched through his leg and he went down hard.

He looked up at her, she could see the pain crowding in despite his attempts to keep his face neutral. Something about this pitiful little defiance really set her off today. Her foot connected hard with his injured thigh and then with his ribs just to drive the point home. She grabbed the handcuffs she had tucked into her belt, knelt down next to him, took hold of his wrist snapping one bracelet around it. "Other hand." She barked.

He didn't hesitate or try to mistake her meaning. Awkwardly he flopped forward onto his stomach and reached behind his body with his free hand. She took pleasure in closing the cuffs tight, one notch away from cutting off his circulation.

He lay there, face down, unmoving; his hands cuffed tightly behind his back, and she dumped the bowl of food on the floor next to his head.

"There you go. Dinner. Enjoy." Then left him, snapping the door shut behind her.

* * *

Mark Snow breathed slowly through his nose, trying to control the pain that was just part of his body now. Everything hurt. He hoped and prayed that Carter had taken the message to John. Maybe John hated him too much to try and help him, but he knew whatever they were planning was huge, and Mark hoped like hell that John cared enough about the eight million other people in New York to do something about them, even if it was too late for Snow.

He had to eat something, it would be as awkward as hell to eat out of the dog bowl he had been given, but in the many weeks or months since he had been captured it was only one more painful humiliation. What was one more to his already overloaded, pain-wracked soul?

He ate, and crawled back on top of the sleeping bag, wiping his face and chin on the edge. Then curled up, knowing that she was unlikely to free his hands any time soon. A single tear slipped down his cheek as he tried to make himself comfortable and closed his eyes.


End file.
